


Works In Progress

by Agnes_Bean



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agnes_Bean/pseuds/Agnes_Bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's downward spiral threatens to pull Bruce over the edge, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Works In Progress

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in the fandom! Written for [this](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5102.html?thread=4871150#t4871150) prompt over at [avengerkink](livejournal), because I can't resist prompts with a lot of feelings. Much thanks to my always awesome beta, bookcat. Any remaining errors are my own. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

Tony was a drinker, that much was clear from day one.

The first thing Tony did on arriving back at Stark Tower after Loki's attack, Bruce in tow, was pull a distressed Pepper Potts into a ferocious embrace; a passionate kiss that stirred up long repressed memories for Bruce, a reminder of something he could never have again. He averted his eyes and shuffled his feet awkwardly until they broke apart and Pepper swept over to introduce herself.

The second thing Tony did was pour himself a drink. It was also the third, fourth, and fifth thing. He downed whiskey like water as he rambled at Pepper, stumbling over words as he tried to lay out the whole story; the aliens and the nuke, the superheroes and why, exactly he'd shown up with a new scientist pal who had previously only visited Stark Tower long enough to beat a demi-god half to death on the floor. By the time he finished he was thoroughly drunk, practically throwing himself at Pepper with a grin and hands everywhere; she had to pry herself away to show Bruce to his new room.

Point is, Tony clearly liked alcohol. Bruce knew that.

But he didn't really _know_ it until Pepper left.

***

To give Tony credit, he warned Bruce. As a companionable lab partnership slid comfortably into real friendship, they found themselves chatting about their pasts while tinkering (an arrow for Clint, a new application for arc reactor technology, an update to Tony's suit).

First it was the happy stuff. How Tony and Pepper got together. Bruce's time in a Buddhist monastery, surrounded by soaring mountains. The pranks Tony had pulled as he and Rhodey formed their unlikely bond. The woman Bruce had once loved. The parties Tony had seen. Oh, so many party stories.

But one day, in the middle of recounting a drunken night spent dodging two inexplicably angry supermodels — “Who expects a call after a threesome?” — Tony stopped. For a moment, he seemed absorbed in his work, but then he looked up, face set with a serious intensity not unlike the way he looked at Bruce when insisting (as he tended to do) that the Other Guy could be controlled.

“I was in a bad place,” he said, amused sparkle gone from the edge of his voice.

Several quips jumped to mind — _Is that what they're calling it these days?_ or _Between two hot woman is a bad place?_ — but Bruce kept them to himself. Not the time. He settled on, “Oh?”

Tony shrugged and went back to the equations dancing across his computer screen, as if startled at himself, or maybe annoyed. Definitely uncomfortable. “As delightfully gregarious as I am when drunk, I sometimes went too far, back then.” It didn't take a genius to know _sometimes_ meant _often_. (No wonder those “funny” stories had stopped seeming so amusing about ten anecdotes back.) Bruce wondered how often Tony had actually admitted that out loud.

“Back then?” he joked. And it was a joke — he threw in a smile to make sure Tony got that. He'd been living in Stark Tower for three months, and while his host still downed drinks with alarming ease, there'd been nary an angry supermodel, destroyed car, or terribly botched experiment in sight.

“Zip it, Banner. And don't you dare start psychoanalyzing anything I just said.” Tony was smiling back.

Two days later, Bruce told him about the first time he transformed. Slowly their happy stories turned into darker ones, here and there. The kind of baring of the soul that might be inevitable, with so many hours spent together, only robots and science to distract them. An openness surprising in its intimacy, frightening in its honesty, alluring in its easiness. Bruce had forgotten what friendship felt like.

Point is, Tony had warned him, if he'd bothered to listen.

***

He should have put two and two together before things started going downhill. Should have realized as soon as Tony stalked into the lab with a casual “you won't be seeing Pepper around as much,” and then wordlessly busied himself with a useless update to the suit for _eighteen hours_.

In retrospect, that was a sign things were about to go to hell.

But he excused it. Burying yourself in work — yeah, he got that. He'd done it. Still did, when the Other Guy was feeling grumpy. That obsessive need to keep tinkering, recalculating, chasing perfection until everything else is banished from your head. Not exactly healthy behavior, but, come on. As far as he could tell, Pepper was about the only person Tony had ever had anything approximating a healthy relationship with. Lab work is the scientist's version of ice cream and a weekend of sappy rom-coms.

He was Tony's friend — maybe, with Pepper gone, even his best friend, which was something he decided not to dwell on because it contained, as a concept, about ten different feelings he wasn't up to unpacking — but he wasn't his babysitter. The robots wouldn't let him light himself on fire, and beyond that, what did it matter? Let the man grieve.

That was a mistake.

Three days after she moved out — three days of Tony blasting rock music and playing with power tools, sleeping on a futon that mysteriously popped up in the lab — Bruce wandered into the living room to find his friend tangled in a leggy brunette, rutting on the couch like a horny teen.

“Uh,” he said. He hadn't even seen Tony leave the lab. Did he just have attractive women stashed away in the spare rooms? (Possible.)

Tony laughed, thick and dizzy. Stopped kissing the girl long enough to throw Bruce a dazed look over his shoulder, sly smile bordering on seductive in its obscene broadness. “Move along,” he giggled. “This is not the couch you're looking for.”

Right. It was (Bruce confirmed with his watch) one in the afternoon. And Tony was completely, entirely shitfaced.

***

Tony didn't come to the lab again for days. Somehow, suddenly, his calendar was simply _full_. It was _essential_ he go to every party he'd been invited to in the last few months. Even the ones he'd already turned down (because what would a billionaire superhero with a loving girlfriend and all of science as a playground gain from attending some reality bimbo's birthday?). _Especially_ those ones. Every hard-partying starlet in the world seemed to be throwing the event of the year _right now_.

In fact, after the first few days of vaguely mumbled excuses, Bruce didn't see Tony at all; if he did any work, it was on a different floor. It stung a bit, to be ignored. Made the little ball of anger in the back of Bruce's mind twist and stalk, territorial. (Worried.) When he asked Jarvis where Tony was — something he did with increasing frequency as the days slid by — the AI would reply that he couldn't say; something in his flat monotone made it clear he didn't approve of Tony's absence from the lab. _You and me both, buddy._

Day nine, Pepper showed up, arms overflowing with folders. She was, after all, the one person keeping Stark Industries in order; leaving Tony couldn't change that. Jarvis announced her in the lab with a terse, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I suggest you receive her, Mr. Banner.” No need to ask why.

“Oh,” Pepper stated when he shuffled into the living room to meet her. “I was hoping to pass these off to Tony. He really needs to look them over before the board meeting on Sunday.”

“I don't think he's going to that.” Bruce strained to keep his tone calm. There was no need for her to know quite what a mess she'd left behind.

No point. Her face immediately scrunched in sympathy. (And annoyance. There was plenty of annoyance there, too.)

“Parties?” she asked. Bruce nodded. She sighed, slipping her folders onto a table and busying herself with arranging them. “I was hoping he'd go with burying himself in work.” She flicked her gaze over to him, small sad smile fluttering and dying in an instant. “Then at least he'd have you to keep him company.”

“I don't think it's my kind of company he's interested in.” Wait. That was insensitive. And, yep, there was the wince. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't – ”

Pepper waved the apology away. She turned back to her folders, needlessly straightening them again. “He slept with someone else.” It came out quiet, an unexpected confession floating in the air, slowly filling the room. “I mean, that wasn't it. It was lots of things. But — I'm not surprised.”

Her shoulders tensed as she waited for his response. But what do you say to that? _I'm sorry_ seemed trite. _You deserve better_? Tony was singular and bright, absolutely magnetic and, in his way, kind. His easy acceptance, his inexplicable and complete lack of fear about the Other Guy — invaluable. To Bruce. But to Pepper? How many hours had Tony spent absorbed in his science, all else forgotten? And to top it off by sleeping with someone else — _Really, Tony? You idiot_ — Yes, she did deserve better. But that seemed too intimate to say. Too many layers, and it all mixed with a twisted sense of guilt. Maybe he could have made Tony pay more attention to her, if he'd bothered to think about it. Maybe he'd been selfish, so absorbed by finally having a friend...

She was still shuffling the papers, silence stretching out to awkwardness. They had established something of a friendship in the few months they'd spent together in Stark Tower. But maybe not this kind of friendship, sharing feelings about relationships and cheating boyfriends. Not when that boyfriend was Tony, certainly.

“I'm worried about him,” he settled on. Probably insensitive again, making it all about Tony. But it was also the truth.

Pepper nodded, a small sharp movement. She spun on her heel, stalked forward, and threw her arms around him, sparking a moment of panic that rapidly subsided into confusion. He let her squeeze him. She stepped back, leaving her hands at his shoulders, hands light and warm through his shirt.

“You should be,” she said. “I'm sorry I'm leaving you with this mess. Really. But...I'm glad you're here for him.”

“Am I? I've barely seen him.”

Pepper laughed, kind and laced with sadness. “It's Tony. If you want to see him, you've got to go find him.”

With that, she planted a soft kiss on his cheek. And then she was leaving as quickly as she came, throwing a last “And do try to make him come on Sunday” before she disappeared.

Minutes ticked by as Bruce stood in the empty room, the quietness of the whole private wing of Stark Tower washing over him. If Tony was home it was impossible to tell, and for a moment he felt as lonely as he ever had trekking through the streets of Calcutta or Rio de Janeiro. If he hadn't liked Pepper so much, he would have sprinted after her and begged her to take Tony back, to restore him to the state of semi-balanced mania that made him the one person Bruce felt safe around.

But that wouldn't be fair. So instead he remained still, listening vainly for any sign of life outside of his own fluttering heartbeat, trying very hard not to be scared.

***

Three days later — Saturday — Bruce managed to track Tony down in a spare workshop, one he was fairly certain he’d never been in before. Hiding, then. But he didn't seem to mind being found, spinning with a grin when the door slammed shut.

“Bruce!” he exclaimed with an enthusiasm that couldn't hide his red-rimmed eyes and the sloppy way he threw his arms out, wide enough to knock over the robot arm he was working on. “Oops.”

Bruce approached cautiously — but not cautiously enough to stop Tony from embracing him with what could be called a bear hug, if the bear was very weak and incredibly hung over. Bruce was overwhelmed with an urge to hug him back, worm his arms around his stupid waist and run his hands through his stupid hair just to make sure he was really there, no longer lost in whatever celebrity infused fantasy world he'd been drifting through.

But then anger flared across the back of his mind and down his spine. Tony didn't _deserve_ a hug, not after he ran off and left Bruce to wonder where he was, if maybe this time it wasn't a girl but a vengeful god that was keeping him away, if maybe —

_Breathe, Banner. Breathe._

“You okay?” Tony chirped, pulling back, smile faltering as his mind struggled to catch up.

“Fine,” Bruce decided. Yeah, fine. “You?”

“Never better,” Tony lied. So clearly a lie that even he seemed to know it was pointless, eyes shifting to the floor.

“Yeah?” Bruce laughed ironically. “You going to that meeting tomorrow, then?”

He expected an eye roll. Maybe a _What meeting_? Or Tony's recent favorite, _I'm an_ Avenger. _I don't do meetings_. Stupidly, somehow (denial? probably denial) he did _not_ expect:

“Are you kidding? After our party, I plan to sleep until at least Monday afternoon.”

Thoughts flooded Bruce's mind all at once, a jumble of _Are you kidding me? - I'm going to punch him in the face. - Pepper, please come back. - I'm moving back to Calcutta. Right now. - In. The. Face._

He managed to cough out, “Our _what_?” before flopping onto a nearby stool, clutching at a desk and breathing rapidly in and out, boiling frustration down into an annoyed rage that simmered, familiar, below the surface.

Tony cocked his head in that devilish way of his, taking in every movement. “Did I forget to have Jarvis tell you?” He shrugged. _Oops_. “Stark Tower is hosting the star studded event of the year tonight. You're invited, of course.”

Fury pounded like a headache. Bruce pressed fingers against the bridge of his nose, one hand still stuck to the desk, concentrating on not killing the man in front of him. “Oh really? I'm invited to a party in my own home?”

When he finally looked up, Tony was wearing a stupid-happy grin, warmth radiating out from between the red rims of his eyes.

“What?”

“You called it home.”

 _Yeah, a home you're going to drag your dysfunction all over. Booze and girls and swarms of people, messy and loud and pulling you away again and_ —

“Don't get cocky. I've had lots of homes.”

Tony's amused chuckle was so familiar Bruce ached. Two weeks without it, and it felt like a gift to get it back. That should probably have been a concern, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but a desperate sort of longing.

“Yeah, but none of them have been as nice as this.” Tony stepped forward and pried Bruce's fingers loose from where they were still clutching the table, so hard it would hurt if he'd bothered to notice. “You okay with this?” he asked, urgency gone. He absentmindedly cradled Bruce's fingers, stroking them with his thumb. “It's just the first floor, so if you need space, there's plenty.”

What would happen if he said no? If he said _Tony, this is a terrible idea. A godawful mess of an idea. You should take a night off; the other guy and parties don't mix; the idea of having you lose yourself in strangers in this place that yes, is my damn home, makes me want to slam you against a wall until you understand sense. So, no, I am not okay with this_. Would Tony shrug and agree to call the whole thing off, come back to the lab — their lab — and sober up, return to sharing jokes and stories and brilliant ideas as easily as if they'd known each other for years?

That would be nice. But it wasn't what would happen. Tony Stark gets what he wants, and this Tony — hung over from a two week bender — this Tony wanted to bring the party home.

“Why not? It's your name on the building.”

Tony lit up, apparently missing the bitter undercurrent in his excitement. “That's the spirit! Socializing will be good for you.” As if this exercise were in any way for Bruce's benefit. Tony winked, apparently pleased with himself. Then he looked at his fallen robot, as if just noticing he'd knocked it over. “Now that you've distracted me, I'm going to go take a nap.”

As soon as the door closed behind him Bruce collapsed, burying his head into his arms on the desk.

“Jarvis?” he asked the air.

“Yes, Dr. Banner?”

“How bad is this going to be?”

Jarvis' silence said more than any response could have.

***

The entire first floor was transformed (by whom? Sometimes Bruce couldn't quite wrap his mind around all the things infinite money could buy), lights dimmed and colored, the bone-rattling bass of synth-infused hip-hop pounding through the floor. A small crowd gathered around the bar that had appeared along one wall. Bruce scanned the group for a sign of Tony, but nothing. Just suits and tight dresses and flashing jewelry.

He pushed into the throng long enough to secure himself a beer, more for show than from any desire to drink. Then he found a convenient corner to sulk in, wondering if Tony was going to even bother showing up. (Of course he would. He wouldn't pass up an open bar of his own design.)

“Bruce Banner!” A loud voice startled him out of his melancholy daze. “Good to see you.”

It was Rhodey, already lightly buzzed, dashing and confident in his uniform. Not the person Bruce wanted to see — not that he wanted to see anyone, really, except for Tony, or maybe Pepper — but there wasn't exactly a way out.

“Hello.” A vague smile accompanied the greeting. “It's nice to see you again.” He had met Rhodey here and there, when he stopped by the Tower to see Tony, maybe take him out to a bar, back before Pepper —

“You and I should hang out,” Rhodey declared, cutting through his thoughts and grabbing his beer away, walking to one of the couches that had somehow sprouted up. Bruce followed, reluctant but curious. If anyone knew about this new side of Tony, drunk and destructive, it would be this man, who was such a key component of so many _hilarious_ stories. Rhodey dumped himself onto the cushions and patted the spot next to him. “Tony's former best friend and the guy who's stealing him from me. Let's bond.”

Bruce sat, tentatively, still half focused on the growing mass of people filling the lobby, their voices swelling in a relentless wave of chatter and piercing laughs. “I don't think I'm exactly stealing Tony from anyone.” He took his beer back and sipped. It felt like the right thing to do.

“Do you know how many nights I've spent listening to him rave about you? 'I met this brilliant guy, Bruce.' 'Bruce and I are working on a new toy.' 'Is Bruce going to move out? How do I stop him from leaving?' 'Bruce had this brilliant idea.' It's never-ending.”

The warm tingle of a blush spread up Bruce's neck, creeping onto his face. “I – ”

“Hey, no hard feelings. It's cool he has someone who can keep up with him.” Rhodey tipped back his drink, finishing it in a few hard gulps. “Besides, I'm still his number one drinking buddy.”

And there went the protective anger, prickling up and stalking like a tiger in the back of his brain, growling at the thought of this man encouraging Tony's recklessness. He hunched forward.

“Yeah? Been doing that a lot lately?” It came out harsh, almost a snarl, and Rhodey recoiled, face flashing with the familiar mask of fear. Panic in the back of the eyes like he'd just remembered who he was talking to.

“I go out with him to keep an eye on him,” he replied slowly, exuberant friendliness morphing into military seriousness. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. He's been worrying me.”

Bruce relaxed, a little, leaning back again and forcing down more beer, swallowing slowly it as he tried to bring his thoughts into order. This was good. They were on the same side. “This isn't normal, right? You've known him longer than I have.”

Rhodey nodded. “Last time I saw him like this, we almost killed each other. I've been trying to keep him under control, but – ”

“He doesn't like being told what to do.”

Rhodey laughed sadly. “Yeah, exactly. I guess it doesn't take long to learn that.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “I was hoping you'd be able to help, tonight. That's why I convinced him to have a party on this coast.”

Something about the way he said it reminded Bruce of Pepper's _I'm glad you're here for him_. When did everyone in Tony's life decide that he — Bruce Banner, the man who could barely keep himself in check — was the person to bring Tony back from the ledge he was so blithely walking over? The idea was huge and nebulous, a looming responsibly creeping up behind him, overwhelming. “I've only known him for three months.”

“And yet you're living in his home. Just talk to him. Please.” Rhodey patted his arm in an encouraging sort of way and then launched himself up into the party with a charming smile. He fit in; Bruce could easily imagine Tony dragging him from bar to bar, booze soaked and picking up girls left and right.

He shuddered and downed the rest of his beer.

***

Tony swanned into the party two hours later — well past fashionably late or even rude, heading straight into slightly crazy — a redhead already on his arm, and, judging by the way he stumbled and smiled, loudly shouting hellos left and right, alcohol already coursing through his system.

Bruce watched as he navigated the girl through the masses to the bar, ordered something brown and dangerous, and then kept weaving, shaking hands and clapping backs, smoothly bouncing from businessman to movie star, a new quip for every guest. It would be impressive if it wasn't so disturbing. How many years had it taken to perfect that act?

Tony slid up next to Rhodey, tried to engage him in some complicated secret handshake the other man had clearly never seen before. The end result was Rhodey shoving him away after Tony accidentally slapped him. Rhodey shot Bruce a pleading look from across the room. _See, I'm useless_.

Was this the moment he was supposed to step forward, fix it all with whatever magical bond Rhodey saw between them? Because he wasn't feeling particularly useful, either. If Tony was sick — vomiting in the bathroom, shivering and hung over — he'd know what to do. But this mess of a charmer, random redhead stuck to his arm like a shield, ridiculously expensive designer suit for armor — nope. No idea. And watching him raised that increasingly familiar brand of anger, protective and scared, blazing hot fury against his friend's choices. He wouldn't really trust himself near Tony even if he had any clue what to say.

But then Tony was shouting at a senator — what was a _senator_ doing here? — and then in a flash he was snatching the senator’s wine glass, gesturing wildly until — “OW!” — it broke in his hand and he was crouched in pain.

That Bruce could help with; he ran across the room before the thought even finished forming.

The redhead was fussing over Tony's hand, trying to use her scarf to stop the bleeding. Bruce shoved her out of the way, harder than he should have, but — _damn it, Tony, you idiot_ — there was only so much mental space for niceties. Tony rose, peering at him through swimming eyes.

“Bruce, you made it!”

“About two hours before you did.” He grabbed the bleeding hand, examining it for glass. He found a shard and pulled it out, wincing as Tony exhaled in pain. Heads were turning, mutters rippling outwards. Bruce could feel eyes boring into them. He needed to get Tony away from these intruders invading their home. “We should go get this cleaned up.”

“And leave the party of the year? It's just getting started!” The words slurred as they tumbled out, and Tony stopped, as if trying to catch up with his own thought process. “I just got here.”

“And who's fault is that, exactly?” Bruce tried to tug him towards the elevator, but Tony yanked his hand away, smearing blood across Bruce's wrist and sleeve. Muscles rippled; the Other Guy danced dangerously close to the surface, pushing in a way he hadn't since the Helicarrier. “Tony...”

Tony gestured at the redhead, who was watching the scene as if she didn't quite know what to make of it. “I have Alisha to think about.”

No. _Shut up_. Bruce snatched Tony's wrist back and turned on the girl. “Go home,” he snapped. She gasped, taken aback by his vehemence. Unfair, but fuck it. “This – ” he gestured at Tony, “is not happening.”

She shrugged, clearly deciding a fight wasn't worth the effort. “It already did. He’s all yours.” She stalked off.

“What'd you do that for?” Tony whined, but at least he allowed himself to be negotiated towards the exit, Bruce's grip tight around his wrist.

“Figure it out with that genius intellect of yours.” The elevator popped open, a welcome escape from the whispers and stares that followed them, harsher than any spotlight. Tony stumbled in after him and the doors whirred shut, surrounding them with blissful quiet.

Tony pulled his arm free and slumped against the wall, massaging his wrist. “You've got quite a grip, big guy. Would you like to explain why you just dragged me away from my own party _and_ ruined my chances to go again with a woman who does indescribable things with her tongue?”

“You mean other than the fact that you're bleeding everywhere?”

Tony examined his bloody hand. “ _Every_ where's an exaggeration.”

 _Why bother_? Patience pulled taut, frighteningly close to snapping. “That's not the _point_ , Tony.”

“What is?” Tony's voice was suddenly sharp. He'd picked up on the tension. “That I should sober up and act like a good boy?”

It was laced with disdain, but Bruce nodded anyway. “Something like that.”

Tony scowled, hunching his shoulders in disapproval. “Et tu, Bruce?”

Anger was tinging frustration now, a dangerous line to walk with his skin already tingling. “I don't think it's stabbing you in the back to say you're acting like an idiot.”

“No. Just mean.” Tony added an exaggerated pout.

Was that supposed to be — sarcastic? Genuine? It read mostly as cute; a thought so out of place Bruce was momentarily disorientated. “Fine. I'm mean. Mean and green. It's kind of my thing.”

“You're not the Hulk,” Tony protested, standing taller, staggering forward just as the elevator opened. He grabbed Bruce and yanked him out after him.

Alone in an empty hall that seemed to stretch forever, momentary silence a stark reminder of the loneliness of the last few weeks, the moment suddenly felt weighted with significance. As if Bruce had somehow found his way to that ledge, and maybe he really could reach out and pull Tony back with the right words. But words were hard to find while fighting to rein in his own anger. Suddenly it struck him that maybe this could go the other way; he could be dragged over the edge, tumbling downwards with his friend.

Not good. That was not a good thought.

“You're not the Other Guy,” Tony repeated. “That's the whole point I've been trying to make — ”

Rage flared. Wrong topic. Totally wrong topic, and what did he know about it anyway? Presumptuous, drunk _imbecile_ — Bruce shoved Tony backwards: He staggered into the wall, bracing himself with a look of surprise.

“You haven't been making _any_ point lately.” Bruce struggled to keep his voice level, could hear the anger shaking it. “Except that you're an irresponsible alcoholic.”

“You know, you actually are a little scary when you're angry.” Tony's voice was quiet and steady, a touch of awe shading the edges. “But I'm fine.”

Bruce closed the gap between them and grabbed Tony at the wrist, wrenching his injured hand up to eye level. Blood ran down the arm, sticking to his fingers. “ _This_ is what you call fine?”

He didn't realize how close they were until Tony's eyes snapped up to meet his, sharp and only inches away, shining with anger and alcohol. “I don't need you to be the new Pepper.”

“Don't you?” Bruce shook Tony's hand, ignoring the way it made the other man wince. “Because as far as I can tell, she was the only thing keeping you in check.”

Tony rolled his eyes, trying to twist away, but Bruce had the upper hand. He pinned Tony against the wall with his free arm and pulled the injured hand closer, examining it with a determined intensity, trying to channel the itching anger that left him almost shaking.

“I don’t need to be taken care of.” Tony tried to pull his hand back.

“Then stop killing yourself!”

Silence. Tony's breath hit his face, warm and harsh, the stinging smell of alcohol infusing the air. Bruce could feel his friend's heart pounding away, rushing at a speed that would have sent him to bad places. Pupils dilated and unclear. What was he doing? This wasn't the right time to be having this conversation. For either of them.

“Fuck you,” Tony spat. Too late. Conversation started.

“Fuck _me_ , Tony? You're the one who hasn't been sober for weeks - ”

“You're clearly new to the magical world of Tony Stark. I'm never sober.” He tried to shrug Bruce's arm off, but that just made Bruce push harder, holding him still.

“That's not true, and it wouldn't make it better if it was.”

“You're just jealous that I've stopped spending all my time with you. I'm sorry if I'm cool enough to actually go out and have some fun every now and then.”

“This your idea of - ” That's when he caught the look on Tony's face, that intense glare right at his eyes. That expression had become familiar in the months in the lab; for a moment the drunk mess of a playboy was gone, replaced by the quizzical scientist-joker he had come to rely on. Bruce stepped back. “Are you seriously trying to get the Other Guy to come out right now?” The whole thing was so absurd he had to laugh.

Tony shrugged, straightening away from the wall. “He gonna be a problem?”

 _Maybe_. “You're completely out of your mind, Tony. _That_ is the problem.”

“That's not a problem, it's a lovable quirk.”

“It's not very lovable right now.”

Tony's face crumpled in an instant, booze-flushed smile giving way to twisted hurt. Exaggerated, but it still made the prowling protective something in the back of Bruce's mind claw at himself, demanding that he apologize and take it back because damn it, this was _Tony_ , who'd taken him in, given him a home, and here he was —

A siren ripped through the moment, a loud blare that shattered Bruce's thoughts, almost startling him out of control. By the time he reoriented himself, Tony was already rushing away, yelling instructions at Jarvis as he stumbled for the stairs. _No_. Bad. Whatever was going on, Tony should not throw himself in the center of it. Caution be damned; Bruce sprinted after him.

***

The party was already in pieces, guests streaming for the door, when Bruce tumbled out of the stairwell. Screaming and the crash of glasses; the stink of booze and sweat and fear. Tony had already melted into the scene.

A man in what appeared to be an imitation Iron Man suit was shooting flames above the crowd, roaring something about technology bringing about the end of the world. Oh good, an actual mad scientist. Exactly what they —

Rhodey came ripping through the air, slamming the other man into a wall with force that made the room shake. Okay, fine. He had it covered. Where had Tony gone? Bruce immediately started pushing through the thinning herd, a desperate thought flaring up. Tony could not get into his —

 _Suit_. Too late. A red blur flashed through the room and smashed into a far wall. Tony went sprawling backwards, almost crashing into one of the stragglers still trying to get out of the door. He straightened long enough to blast too high and hit himself against the ceiling with a sickening crunch.

That's when Bruce lost control.

***

When he came to, he was lying — naked, of course — in the rubble that had been Stark Tower's main lobby. Somehow, despite the the utter decimation of the decor, the building was still standing. (Improbable. But then, it must have been designed to withstand most anything. Even a Hulk.) S.H.I.E.L.D. agents milled around, already starting cleanup. Fuck.

He rolled over and crept, hands and knees, to the elevator. He threw himself in, the doors thankfully whizzing closed behind him. He wasn't interested in talking to S.H.I.E.L.D. right now. Wouldn't even begin to know what to say to them. He was still slumped on the floor, dizzy and disoriented, when the elevator started moving.

“Jarvis, where's Tony?”

Nothing. But the doors opened at their floor. He hauled himself to standing.

He tried to form something out of the sketchy blur of memories the Other Guy left behind as he sprinted haphazardly towards his room, world coming back into focus. It didn't seem like he'd been out long, and a gut feeling — an unfamiliar certainty that warmed him even in his confusion— said he hadn't seriously hurt anyone. And he'd woken up where he started. Unusual.

He found a pair of pants and pulled them on, hands still trembling with adrenaline and worry. Harsh moments — Tony flying across the room, a drunken spin — kept busting across his mind, vividly real; pieces of memory laced with anger. Not the normal blind rage but something else, something more...nuanced? No. The Other Guy wasn't one for nuance.

Without even realizing it, he was outside Tony's room. The door was propped open; he wondered if it was an intentional invitation. Probably not. Probably Tony had staggered in, forgetting to even close the door. Was he okay? Jarvis would say something if he wasn't. He had to be. (If he wasn't — If he wasn't and it was the Other Guy's fault...)

He _had_ to be.

He stepped tentatively through the threshold. “Tony?”

He received a groan in response.

And there he was: Lying on the floor, legs still in the bathroom that joined his room, as if he'd given up halfway through trying to get out. Bruce had a feeling that's exactly what had happened. He rushed to his friend's side, hand instantly going to his shoulder. His expensive suit was gone, leaving nothing but a sweat-soaked undershirt; he reeked of booze and maybe blood. The arc reactor glowed faintly through the thin white fabric, a steady assurance that deep down, he was, in fact, fine. (Well, alive, anyway.)

“Your little friend was not very nice today,” Tony murmured, futilely straining for a lighthearted tone as he looked up at Bruce, eyes half focused.

Fuck. And he'd been so sure he'd somehow managed to avoid destruction, this time. “That's what I've been telling you all along.” He could hear the disappointment in his own voice.

And then Tony _rolled his eyes_. Rolled his eyes. About the Other Guy. Only Tony Stark. “Calm down, doc. You didn't hurt anyone.” He struggled to sit up, moaned, and collapsed again. “Except me, of course.”

Um. “What?”

“Yeah. He kind of batted me around for a bit. Then he just stood over me and roared until Rhodey took care of everything. Which — not very helpful, really.”

Bruce sat back, curling his knees into himself as pieces clicked into place. The memories were just as hazy, jagged and broken, but the emotion suddenly made sense. The furious protectiveness that had been prowling around his skull for weeks — that, but magnified, stretched and clarified through a simple mind. A simple purpose, too: Get the crazy flying man out of the air.

“He was mad at you.”

“Me?” Tony tried to consider this, eyes racing across the ceiling. “I'm not the one who crashed the party.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. He almost left it there, but the flash of another memory — _I'm glad he has you_ — pushed him on. Maybe it took the Other Guy to get the point home. Maybe _this_ was the time for the conversation. (Maybe if he let it go, Tony would go spinning over the edge for good. Maybe next time the Other Guy would decide the crazy flying man wasn't worth protecting.) “But you're the one who scared him.”

That got Tony's attention. He turned his head towards Bruce, eyes burning with focus; Bruce looked away, but could feel them sweeping over his face, trying to get more data. “ _I_ scared _him_?”

“Me. You scared me.” Their conversation from before the attack flooded back with clarity, and Bruce felt a flush creep across his body. He realized the enormity of what he'd just said. Maybe Tony, still buzzed and half passed out, wouldn't realize how rare it was for him to be scared by someone else's recklessness, but he was smart. He'd figure it out eventually. “How's your hand?”

It took Tony a moment to catch up to the thought. He looked down, and then raised his hand so Bruce could see. Still bleeding.

“You should let me wrap that up.”

Tony was looking at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the room. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling — Tony often found him (or, more often, the Other Guy) fascinating — but here, with Tony surely too battle weary for scientific curiosity, it took on a different shape, startlingly intimate instead of starkly inquisitive.

He extended Tony an arm, which he took, wrapping his good hand around Bruce's shoulder and practically hauling himself up, breath labored as he struggled, arm wrapping closer, hand scrambling for support on Bruce's back as he rose. He staggered to his feet and swayed, face inches away.

“You really did a number on me, big guy,” he joked. “I'm going to be one giant bruise.”

“Sorry.” But he wasn't. Not entirely. “You were going to hurt yourself anyway.”

Tony exhaled, a loud _whoosh_ of grumpy air. “Really? Your alter ego swats me around like a fly, and now you're going to lecture me?” There was genuine annoyance there, but maybe a tinge of amusement, too. As if he couldn't quite believe the man standing in front of him would dare be so audacious. He definitely didn't move away, keeping his good arm firmly around Bruce's waist, hand warm against his bare skin.

Now. He had to try to get the point across _now_. “You've been scaring me for weeks,” he admitted, wondering if it would be enough to send Tony stumbling off in a huff. It wasn't. “I think that's why the Other Guy was mad at you.”

“You're worried about me, so the giant green rage monster inside of you pulled me out of the air and yelled at me for you? Instead of fighting the bad guy?” Definitely amusement in Tony's voice now (maybe even some awe). The annoyance and pain were subsiding; his heavy panting gave way to a warm in-out, in-out as he stared, eyes heavy with wonder.

“It...would appear so, yes.”

Tony's lips met his with a passionate thrust that sent him careening backwards. They crashed into a wall, Tony pressing closer, tongue pushing, warm, against his lips, one hand working its way into his hair, the other palm dragging along the side of his face, greedy.

Tony was getting blood on him, a small part of his mind realized. The rest was busy turning into a gibbering pile of confusion as he tried to process Tony Stark. Kissing him. Bruce Banner. Who was kissing back, lips parting, hands gripping at Tony's side, a warmth growing in his stomach that had nothing to do with anger. Tony tasted of cocktail shrimp, and salt, and –

Whiskey. _Whiskey_. What was he doing?

He twisted his head away, his entire body protesting the choice. He hadn't even known he wanted it, but now that it was happening, _not_ kissing Tony Stark seemed like the dumbest idea in the world. Tony pressed lips to his neck instead, teeth nipping confidently, fingers twisting in his hair. "You are utterly incredible, you know that?" he muttered between kisses.

It took Bruce his years of practicing self restraint to summon the will to say, “Tony, stop.”

Tony did, drawing back slightly, hand whispering down to curl behind his neck. “Problem?” Said with the cocksureness of a man who had rarely had anyone answer yes to that question.

“You're still drunk.” Bruce's lips stung with the taste of alcohol; it overwhelmed the ghosting sense memory of their kiss, a frustrating realization that made him want to plant his lips on Tony's again but no, that wasn't the solution.

“Nah. I think you knocked me sober.” Tony leaned forward, pressing their bodies together, sweat-soaked shirt sticking to Bruce's bare skin. It was probably meant to be seductive, but the way he rested his full weight without any artistry spoke more to exhaustion than anything else. “Besides, I'm often drunk.”

“That's also a problem.” Bruce circled his arm around Tony's back, pulling him closer, supporting his nearly limp body. Definitely exhausted. “And you're still bleeding. _And_ I think I'm uniquely qualified to say that in my medical opinion, no one who has been knocked around by the Other Guy should be standing, let alone kissing anyone.”

“But I want to.” It came out like a whine and Tony added a wicked smile. A joke, then. Kind of. But he did want to, that much was clear by the hand he was running up and down Bruce’s head. Petting him? Yeah, Tony Stark was petting him. And _god_ , did he want to, too. He wanted to pull Tony so close that he'd never go away again, lips locking on lips, warm and hard and passionate and _his_.

His.

Ah. That would explain the possessive tinge his anger had taken since Tony's downward spiral. Interesting. (How long had his subconscious been dancing around the idea? Probably not worth trying to figure out at that moment. Maybe Pepper had even picked up on it. Bruce had often suspected she was smarter than either of them, in her own way.)

“I'll make you a deal,” he decided, suddenly on the edge of a very different sort of precipice. He realized his own head was throbbing. Maybe this was crazy. But maybe not and damn it, now that he had finally caught Tony, he refused to let him go again. “You let me treat that cut and go to bed. If you wake up sober tomorrow and still want to kiss me, I'll see what I can do.”

Tony rested his forehead against Bruce's, considering the offer with clear reluctance, hand still running it's easy path through his hair. Maybe calculating if he could try kissing again, instead.

“One condition,” he finally said. “Stay tonight. Clothes on, if that appeals to your delicate sensibilities. Just keep me company, and make sure I don't sneak a sip of vodka in the morning.” A bit cheeky. A little annoyed again. But under that? He was kind of, actually, genuinely, asking for help.

That small note of acquiescence was enough to lift the tense weight of worry that had settled on Bruce that first afternoon he’d found Tony drunk and coupling on their couch. (So constant a companion, he had almost forgotten it was there.)

It wasn't over, the brutally logical side of his mind told him. Clearly, Tony was a work in progress, far more than he'd realized in those first months of easy companionship. But, hey, he had lost control tonight, too. He knew a thing or two about works in progress.

He leaned forward to place one soft kiss on Tony's lips, so light it was barely there.

“Deal,” he whispered. “I think that's the best idea you've had in weeks.”

_\-- End --_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I know A03 is being buggy right now, so if you happen to be inclined to leave a comment and would find it easier to do at LJ, you can do so [here.](http://agnes-bean.livejournal.com/253775.html)


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